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SALVO    THREE 

ITHIS   MORNING 

POEMS  by  HILDEGARDE  FLANl^ER 


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SALVO:  a  Series  Devoted  to  Life,  Art  and 
Literature,  is  the  result  of  enthusiasms  and 
vague  beliefs.     It  will  be  issued  as  the  occa 
sion  demands 

I.  A  FEW  FIGS  FROM  THISTLES.  Poems 
and  Four  Sonnets.  By  Edna  St.  Vincent 
Millay  .75 

II.  IRON  MEN  AND  WOODEN  SHIPS:  Sailor 
Chanties.  Collected  by  F.  S.  Cover  de 
signed  by  Donald  Corley.  .50 

III.  THIS  MORNING:  Poems.  By  Hildegarde 
Planner.  Cover  designed  by  Frederic 
Momhoff  .50 

PROPOSED  ISSUES: 

TAHITAN  POEMS.  By  Genevieve  Taggard 
THE    BOWLING    GREEN.      Poems    from 
Christopher  Morley's  column  in  the  N. 
Y.  Evening  Post. 
POEMS.  By  Laura  Benet. 
DESIGNS.    By  Donald  Corley. 

Communications  Should  Be  Addressed  to 
FRANK  SHAY,  Publisher  of  SALVO 
Four  Christopher  Street,  New  York 


SUBSCRIPTIONS  WILL  BE  RECEIVED 
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EACH  ISSUE.  If  you  send  Five  Dollars,  we 
will  know  you  wish  SALVO  sent  for  ten 
issues. 


Fifty 

Contemporary 
One-Act  Plays 


Edited  and  Selected  by 
Frank  Shay  and  Pierre  Loving 

This  volume  contains  fifty  representa 
tive  one  act  plays  of  the  modern  theatre, 
chosen  from  the  dramatic  works  of  con 
temporary  writers  all  over  the  world.  Some 
of  the  countries  represented  are :  Austria, 
Belgium,  Bolivia,  France,  Germany,  Hol 
land,  Hungary,  Great  Britain,  India,  Ire 
land,  Italy,  Russia,  Spain,  Sweden,  United 
States  and  the  Yiddish  Theatre. 

The  editors  have  scrupulously  sifted 
countless  plays,  and  have  selected  the  best 
available  in  English. 

Both  Frank  Shay  and  Pierre  Loving  have 
been  connected  for  many  years  with  little 
theatres  in  the  United  States.  This  has  af 
forded  them  an  exceptional  opportunity 
for  testing  the  validity  of  many  one  act 
plays,  both  as  to  their  literary  value  and 
dramatic  possibilities  in  actual  production. 

An  exhaustive  bibliography  will  be  found 
at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

Special  Circular  Upon  Request. 

Larfte  STO.  cloth  Not  S5.OO 

FRANK  SHAY 


THIS  MORNING 


POEMS  BY  HILDEGARDE  PLANNER 


SALVO:    Published   by   FRANK   SHAY 

Four  Christopher  Street,  New  York  City 
1921 


THIS  MORNING: 

Hildcgarde  Planner 


CONTENTS 

THIS  MORNING 

I  AM  YOUNG 

DISCOVERY 

SOLITUDE 

CIRCLE 

GARDEN 

BIRDS 

"BIRCH  GROVE" 

COMPANION 

MOOD 

COMMUNION 

Copyright,  1920,  1921 
By  Hildegarde  Planner 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

The  Publisher  of  SALVO  is  indebted  to  the  University  of  Cal 
ifornia:  The  Occident;  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse;  Franklin 
P.  Adams,  the  Conning  Tower,  for  permission  to  reprint  some  of 
the  poems  herein  contained. 


Pare  Two 


THIS  MORNING 


After  the  emotion  of  rain 

The  mist  parts  across  the  morning, 

Like  the  smile  of  one 

Who  has  laughed  in  sleep 

And  cannot  remember  why. 


The  damp  road  companions  my  feet, 

And  is  a  friend  to  every  step. 

Above  me  winter  goldfinches 

Cling  like  fruit 

To  the  delighted  birch  trees; 

And  the  studious  earth, 

Thinking  what  flowers  to  speak  in  next, 

Moves  restlessly  with  small,  wise  birds 

Who  read  tucks  in  the  moss, 

Symbols  on  beetle-wings, 

And  comedies  on  pink  and  yellow  pebbles, 

Which  1  am  too  tall  to  see. 


435847 


Page  Three 


c   t   ee  t,«*  ,.*<«*-:  «        »  •  £0     "  '*"*• 

I  AM  YOUNG 

Happiness  grows  like  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
Happiness  flows  like  a  girdle  from  my  waist, 
Happiness  runs  like  a  black  dog  at  my  side 
To  remember  the  lyric  path  that  we  have  traced. 


When  1  die,  leash  a  swift  dog  to  guard  the  grass, 
Lest  it  follow  me  into  the  earth. 
Then  put  a  girdle  across  my  lips 
To  catch  my  mirth. 


Page  Four 


DISCOVERY 


Until  my  lamp  and  I 

Stood  close  together  by  the  glass, 

I  had  not  ever  noticed 

I  was  a  comely  lass. 

My  aunts  have  always  nodded, 

"Sweet  child, 

She  has  a  gentle  soul 

And  mild." 

And  so,  one  night, 
I  took  the  lamp  and  said, 
"I'll  look  upon  my  gentle  soul 
Before  I  go  to  bed." 

I  could  not  find  it — no — 
But  gazing  hard  I  spied 
Something  much  more  near  to  me, 
White-armed  and  amber-eyed. 

And  as  I  looked  I  seemed  to  feel 
Warm  hands  upon  my  breast, 
Where  never  any  hands  but  mine 
Were  known  to  rest. 

And  as  I  looked,  my  startled  thoughts 
Winged  up  in  happy  night, 
And  circled  like  mad  butter-flies 
About  the  light. 

I  went  to  bed  without  my  soul 
And  I  had  no  mind  to  care, 
For  a  joyful  little  sin 
Slept  pillowed  on  my  hair. 

I  went  to  bed  without  my  soul 
— What  difference  to  me? 
I  had  a  joyful  little  sin 
For  company. 

And  that  is  what  came  of  listening 
To  aunts  who  always  lied. 
They  never  told  me  that  I  was 
White-armed   and   amber-eyed. 


Page  Five 


SOLITUDE 


I  have  pitched  my  soul 
Among  a  solitude 
Of  other  tents  .  .  . 
O  will  none  of  you, 
Will  none  of  you 
Draw  back  the   flap 
Of  painted  canvas? 


Page  Six 


CIRCLE 


Of  all  the  motions  I  have  made, 
One  forms  in  endless  grace — 
My  hands  uplifted  whitely 
To  your  face. 


Of  all  the  sounds  that  I  have  heard, 
One  cannot  sink  to  rest — 
Your  footsteps  going  east, 
Mine  going  west. 


Page  Seven 


GARDEN 
I.     PORTULACA 

Some  day  I  might  die  .... 

For  fear  they  cannot  hear  me  laugh 

When  I  am  being  buried, 

Come  and  be  merry  on  my  grave, 

O  cerise  and  yellow  darlings, 

So  that  my  friends  may  say, 

"It  seems  to  me  I  hear  her  voice." 


II.     COLUMBINE 

There  is  an  eager  hillside 

Thirsting   to  a  lake, 

And  on  the  sands  a  hundred  toads 

Trilling  to  awake 

A  band  of  ghosts  with  yellow  brows, 

Who  stretch  green  hands  and  rise 

To  look  along  their  happy  limbs 

With  cherry-coloured  eyes. 


III.     NASTURTIUM 

I  shall  hide  my  discretion 

In  your  willing  brightness, 

And  give  you  to  a  snail  to  hold, 

And  say, 

"Catch  me  if  you  can, 

I  am  going  to  China." 


Page  Eight 


IV.  TIGRIDIA 

Let  three  naked  men 
Carry  me  across  the  jungle. 
There  is  a  broken  temple 
Where  I  must  meet  the  new  moon 
At  sunrise. 

V.  PURPLE  IRIS 

I  could  drown 

In  one  deep  petal. 

VI.  DIANTHUS 

They  say  my  grandmother  often  picked  you 
And  placed  your  quaint  perfume 
At  her  tight  girdle. 

My  grandmother 

Did  Vergil  into  French 

And  then  had  seven  children. 

....  I  shall  not  pick  you, 
Dianthus. 

VII.  SUNFLOWER 

You  must  have  more  wisdom  than  any, 

For  the  sun  tells  you 

What  God  says, 

And  wild  canaries  tell  you 

What  it  is, 

To  be  a  yellow  motion 

In  the  air. 


Page   Nine 


BIRDS 


Beloved,  the  black  swans  of  my  eyes 
Are  loosed  to  your  behest, 
And  must  I  still  keep  caged  from  you 
The  white  swans  of  my  breast? 

My  hands,  like  slender  pigeons, 
Flutter  the  whole  day  through. 
Did  you  not  know  the  little  things 
Home  unto  you? 


My  lips,  like  slim  canaries, 
Sing  when  I  hear  you  speak. 
Beloved,  bend  and  stroke  once  more 
The  finches  of  my  cheek. 


Pare  Ten 


"BIRCH  GROVE"— By  Boris  Anisfeld 

"Je  peins  ce  que  je  sens,  pas  ce  que  je  vois." 


I  cannot  find  a  path  there 

For  mortal  feet  at  all, 

Where  the  shepherd  boy  is  golden  air 

And  the  leaves  are  a  water-fall. 


1  cannot  wantonly  intrude 
Into  that  pagan  solitude, 
Where  little  dream  goats  in  a  row 
Trot  quaintly,  primly  to  and  fro. 


One  hand  upraised  would  be  to  crush 
The  wonder-strung  fragility 
Of  trees  that  with  a  slow,  still  rush 
Flow  down  from  high  infinity. 

There  is  a  chain  I  cannot  sever  .  .  . 
There  is  a  wall  that  never  .  .  .  never  .  . 

I  watch  the  little  dream  goats  pace 
Within  that  dim  and  dryad  place. 


Page  Eleven 


COMPANION 


When  the  sun  is  shining, 

I  go  within  the  privacy  of  mist 

Along  a  road 

Where  time  is  clasped  in  laurel  bough* 

And  leaf-life  minutes 

Drop  unhindered  to  the  ground. 


When  the  moon  slinks  above  me 
Like  a  white  cat, 
And  the  cricket  stars  chirp  angrily 
Far  behind  her, 

I  am  as  much  alone 
As  though  I  were  God. 


There  may  be  others  besides  myself 

Who  live  upon  the  earth, 

But  I  have  not  found  them. 

My  only  companion 

Is  a  little,  wren-like  pain 

That  gossips  of  death. 


Pa«e   Twelve 


MOOD 


My  shadow  going  on  before 

Flutters  like  a  leaf, 

But  it  can  never  reach  the  door 

Before  my  grief. 

My  grief  goes  first  and  takes  the  key 

To  open  the  door  and  welcome  me. 

He  offers  me  a  lonely  cup 

Full  of  lily  wine 

And  says,    "Come  sister,   share  this  drink, 

Yours  and  mine." 

He  weds  a  pale  blue  candle 

To  a  loving  flame 

And,  holding  it  before  his  lips, 

Breathes  over  it  my  name. 

He  lays  his  forehead  to  my  knee 

And  I  smooth  his  sorrowing  hair. 

The  look  of  it  beneath  my  hands 

Is  soft  and  fair. 

He  opens  his  mouth  and  sings  one  note 

That  strikes  like  rain  against  my  throat; 

Then  he  leads  me  jealousy  to  bed, 

Lest  I  meet  my  dreams  uncompanied. 


What  a  desolate  thing  my  house  would  be 
If  grief  were  not  there  to  welcome  me. 


Page  Thirteen 


COMMUNION 


I  have  spoken  with  the  dead. 

From  the  silence  of  my  bed 

I  have  heard  them  in  the  night. 

Their  voices  are  as  white 

As  altar  candles.      Their  voices  are  as  gold  as  wheat, 

And  clustered  in  the  dark  their  words  are  sweet 

As  ripened  fruit.  Their  voices  are  the  colour  of  dim  rain 

Over  grass  where  spring  has  lain. 

Their  speaking  is  an  orchard  of  delight. 

I  have  heard  them  in  the  night. 

Their  lips  bloomed  into  heavy  song 

That  hung  like  bells  above  me.     You  are  wrong 

Who  say  the  dead  lie  still. 

I  heard  them  sing  until 

The  cup  of  silence  fell  in  two  and  lay 

Broken  by  beauty  of  what  dead  men  say. 


There  is  no  lovliness  I  cannot  see. 
There  is  no  wall  too  stern  for  me. 
There  is  no  door  that  can  withstand 
The  lifted  symbol  of  my  hand. 


I  know  an  ancient  shibboleth: 

1  pass,  for  I  have  talked  with  death! 

Page  Fourteen 


The  Provincetown 
Plays 


Edited  and  Selected  by 
George  Cram  Cook  and  Frank  Shay. 

A  record  of  the  work  of  the  most  serious 
and  important  of  all  new  theatre  move 
ments  in  America.  The  plays,  which  are 
distinctively  American,  are  a  notable  con 
tribution  to  our  stage,  and  go  far  towards 
indicating  America's  place  in  the  world  of 
the  theatre. 

The  contents  are: 

ARIA  DE  CAPO  -  By  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 
STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN  -  By  Rita  Wellman 
NIGHT  By  James  Oppenheim 

THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES  -  By  Floyd  Dell 
SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

By  George  Cram  Cook  and  Susan  Glaspell 
BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF       - 

By  Eugene  G.  O'Neill 

COCAINE  -  -  By  Pendleton  King 

ENEMIES  -  ByNeith  Boyce  and  Hutchins  Hapgood 

NOT  SMART  -  By  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele 

THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL         -         By  Alice  Rostetter 

Octavo,  silk  cloth,  ftilt  top,  net  S3.OO. 

FRANK  SHAY 


New  Stage  Guild 
Plays 

I — THE  HERO  OF  SANTA  MARIA.  A  Ridiculous 
Tragedy  in  One  Act.  By  Kenneth  Sawyer 
Goodman  and  Ben  Hecht.  4m,  Iw.  .50 

II — THE  GREEN  SCARF.  An  Impossible  Com 
edy  in  One  Act  .  By  Kenneth  Sawyer  Good 
man.  1m,  Iw.  .50 

III— THE  WONDER  HAT.  A  Harlequinade  in 
One  Act.  By  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman 
and  Ben  Hecht.  3m,  2w.  .50 

IV — THREE  WISHES..  A  Comedy  in  One  Act. 
By  Thomas  Wood  Stevens.  .50 


Stewart  Kidd 
Modern  Plays 


Edited  by  FRANK  SHAY 

To  meet  the  immensely  increased  de 
mands  of  the  play-reading  public  and  those 
interested  in  the  modern  drama,  Stewart 
&.  Kidd  Company  are  issuing,  under  the 
general  editorship  of  Frank  Shay,  a  series 
of  plays  from  the  pens  of  the  world's  best 
contemporary  writers.  No  effort  is  being 
spared  to  secure  the  best  work  available, 
and  the  plays  are  issued  in  a  form  that  is 
at  once  attractive  to  readers  and  suited  to 
the  needs  of  the  performer  and  producer. 

The  titles  are: 

SHAM  By  Frank  G.  Tompkins 

THE  SHEPHERD  IN  THE  DISTANCE 

By  Holland  Hudson 

MANSIONS  -          -         By  Hildegarde  Planner 

HEARTS  TO  MEND         -        By  H.  A.  Overstreet 

Others  to  follow  shortly 

Hound  in  Art  Paper.  5Oc  to  75o  each. 

FRANK  SHAY 


viayiuru  oroa. 

Makers 

Syracuse.  N.  Y. 
PAT.  JAN.  21,  1908 


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